Time
by mari12345
Summary: Two weeks after his flatmate's miraculous return, John sees the scars from his interrogation. The friends share a heart-to-heart and try to move on.


**A/N: Hey guys, thanks for reading. This is just a little one shot that popped into my head last night. Hope you enjoy!**

"Sherlock?" John called, running up the familiar steps of 221 Baker Street. He opened the door marked 'B' without knocking; Sherlock never answered anyway. "Mary's gone out to dinner with Jeanine and I wondered if you fancied going to Angelo's…" He trailed off, realizing his former flatmate was not in his usual deep-thinking position on the couch, nor did he appear to be conducting experiments in the kitchen.

Listening for a moment, John realized the shower was running. _Of course Sherlock is taking a shower in the middle of the evening, since when did he do anything normally?_ Their years of cohabitation had taught John that Sherlock would be done soon, however, so he sunk happily into his old chair, content to wait for his friend to emerge. And then hopefully he could drag him to dinner.

Sherlock did not eat regularly under the best of circumstances, and John doubted that in the excitement of his return—_had it only been two weeks?_—and the shock of John's absence from Baker Street the young detective's appetite had grown any. Plus, he knew for a fact that Greg had been coming round to give Sherlock case files from his time away, hoping the consulting detective could close them. The sheer volume would be enough to make Sherlock forget about his transport for days on end.

The doctor knew he should have come around more often, but it was hard to readjust to having Sherlock's presence in his life after so long without it. John had not enjoyed the grey monotony of his Holmes-less life, broken only Mary, but the brightness and vibrancy of Sherlock was still difficult to jump back into. It didn't help that John still half expected Sherlock to disappear again at any given moment. He was sure he couldn't handle that a second time.

Sometimes he thought he ought not to get involved with the younger man's life at all, if only to spare himself the possible pain of reliving those terrible two years. Yet he knew, and Mary knew even before he did, bless her, that he could not stay away from Sherlock. They were too much a part of each other and Sherlock's extended holiday had only served to prove that to the pair, whether they admitted it or not.

Hearing the water shut off, John stood up and looked expectantly at the door to the bathroom. He grinned as it opened to reveal the tall slender form of Sherlock Holmes, looking decidedly less dapper than the papers would have you believe: towel around his waist, hair dipping, too-thin torso exposed, scars contrasting starkly against the pale skin… _Scars?_

"What are those?" John asked hotly, crossing the room before Sherlock even had time to acknowledge his presence.

"John?" replied his friend, sounding confused. "How long have you been here? Did you make the tea this morning?"

"No, I did not bloody make the tea! I've only been here five minutes. Now stop trying to change the subject." John was now able to see his chest more clearly, and there were indeed fresh scars and bruises marring it, though the scars seemed to start at his ribs and move back, which could only mean that Sherlock's back was somehow more a mess than his front.

"Mary's gone out to dinner then? Right after work, so it must have been impromptu, maybe a girlfriend going through a breakup? And now you're here, hoping to go to dinner with me, I suppose? Well, lucky for you I've just finished a case for Lestrade."

"Not the point, Sherlock." Though Jeanine _had_ just broken up with that tosser Richard, this time for good, she swore.

"Point? What point? This has been an utterly bizarre conversation. I'm going to get changed." Sherlock made at that moment to back into his room, but the look in John's eyes gave him pause.

"No, not until you show me your back."

"My back? What could possibly be so interesting about my back? You've seen it before, it looks very much like the backs of your many girlfriends after they dumped you."

"Deflecting won't work, Sherlock. Now turn around or I'll tell Mrs. Hudson that you're very ill and need to be looked after 24/7," John declared resolutely, falling back on one of his more common manipulations.

"You wouldn't."

"I'll also call Mycroft and suggest he have you looked at by one of his doctors." The double threat of Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson was enough. With a dramatic _hmph, _Sherlock spun around and marched into his room.

He returned two minutes later wearing a pair of slacks and his dressing robe, throwing a spare shirt onto the couch. "Before we begin this ridiculous and necessary medical exam," he stated stiffly, "I just want to be clear that my brother is not to be contacted, nor should Gerald or the rest of Scotland Yard be informed."

"Greg," John corrected automatically. "And of course I won't tell them. Now take off your robe." Sighing, Sherlock shrugged the garment off, letting it fall to the floor.

John stood shell-shocked for a moment at the sight. It was worse than he could have imagined. Bruises and barely-healed scars blended together on Sherlock's back to form a grotesque tapestry. John breathed in sharply. "God…" His fingers absently traced over the deep cuts, following their path down his friend's back.

"Subpar interrogators. Much too mean. No skill, no patience. Couldn't have convinced Mycroft to reveal the location of his hidden stash of Thin Mints."

"Interrogators?" John asked, his fingers stopping their tracing of Sherlock's scars. "What interrogators?"

"The Serbs." Sherlock waved an arm dismissively, causing the web of scarring on his shoulder blades to stretch grotesquely. Sherlock had always had scars, of course. He had taken enough falls—_too many falls_—and blades from chasing criminals for a lifetime, but such was the life of the world's only consulting detective. This, however, was different. These scars were more deliberate, more systematic, suggestive of…

"Torture?" John breathed, shocked.

"Well, if you're being generous, yes. As I said, they were no good at it. But what can you expect from the dregs of the Moriarty web? They were as subtle as he, which is to say… John?" For John had just stepped back quickly. Sherlock spun to face him, face puzzled.

"Moriarty's people? They did this to you?"

"I told you what I was doing during my… hiatus. I was hardly sitting around my brother's place. If he couldn't take down Moriarty from his armchair, how could I?"

John hadn't considered that. Sherlock had of course told him that he had gone to destroy Moriarty's network, but still the images he conjured up of Sherlock's two years featured Sherlock running around Europe setting up elaborate traps like Jason Bourne. Or calling up Mycroft's people to take down a key politician while he sat safely in a luxury hotel room. Anything, really, except this.

"But… you let me punch you, and tackle you, and God, the fire…" John now looked quietly horrified. Had he known Sherlock was injured he would not have attacked him. No matter how angry he was.

"Yes, you did open some of the stitches back up, I'll admit, but it seemed prudent to let your anger get out all in one go rather than have it boil up later." With a sinking feeling, John looked closer at a few wounds and realized that, yes, they had been reopened. Most needed to be cleaned, and at least one needed new stitches. Silently and deliberately, John turned to the kitchen and located the medical supplies kit he always kept there. He grabbed the kit and the kitchen stool, placing both in front of his chair. Rather more roughly than he'd intended, he pushed Sherlock onto the stool and set to work cleaning the worst wounds.

"You're angry again. What did I do wrong?" asked Sherlock after minutes of silence. The doctor didn't answer; instead he began preparing the sutures. "I'm sorry I faked my death. I'm sorry I ruined your proposal. I'm sorry, okay?" He sounded frustrated and… a little bit desperate?

"Don't." Said John, stubbornly continuing his sutures. "Don't. I'm not angry. Well, not at you anyway. How could you think you deserved this?" He indicated Sherlock's back, though the man himself could not see.

"It was sort of my punishment, right? I wanted things to go back to normal, so I thought that if you hurt me like I hurt you, we would be even… But I was wrong."

John finished stitching up the wound and came around to face Sherlock. "This was not okay. And I'm sorry. But things cannot go back to normal with just a few punches and a good case. Do you understand? I thought you were dead. I mourned you. Two years. And now you're back and, God, I'm so happy and thankful." Sherlock looked up hopefully. "But I'm also hurt." He looked down again. "And so are you, even though you won't admit it. So we have to rebuild the trust and friendship. We'll get there, just not right away. It'll take time." His voice softened. "And you can't imagine how happy I am that you and I suddenly have a lot of that."

There was silence for a moment as Sherlock shrugged his new shirt on, watching John's movements. Just as John was placing the kit back in the kitchen, he heard a soft voice.

"I am too, you know," said Sherlock quietly. John looked at him sharply, though Sherlock was studiously avoiding his face. "Glad we have time, that is. There were times… I wasn't sure that we would." John winced at the implications of those words. Sherlock's "hiatus," as he was apparently calling it, had clearly been more dangerous and traumatic than he was willing to admit.

"Alright," said John. He clapped his hands together. "Alright. Let's see, 7:00? Angelo's is definitely open. Let's go get something to eat."

"You just don't want to have to pay for dinner," Sherlock teased as he grabbed his coat. "And you secretly love the roses Angelo insists on placing on the table."

"And you just like that Angelo hero-worships you more than Molly Hooper does," John retorted, closing the flat's door behind them.

There was still a distance between the friends, but it had shrunk that day. And if John laughed a little more at Sherlock's jokes and Sherlock submitted to another exam the next day with only a token resistance, well, the gap closed all the quicker.


End file.
